I am propped up on pillows, in an ironic approximation of comfort. My fingers tense and flex as I watch him fuck you, and my wrists strain with the effort of remaining still. Inertia feels profoundly unnatural, given the waves of kinetic energy that tumble off your bodies at each roll of his hips; the rhythm is laced with the excitement of the unfamiliar, and your gasping, mewling cries crackle with an extra charge as they spit out towards me.

I am held in place by the awareness that moving would jar all of us back to an unwanted reality. There is a simple beauty to the way you piston back and forth on his cock; adding complexity at this point would drive only entropy, and an accompanying collective failure of will. Nevertheless, arousal and jealousy battle inside me, carried along on a surging swell of almost visceral frustration. I want to touch you both, but more than that I want to be invited in; to put myself inside your bodies and feel you fuck.

Despite our proximity, it is you with whom the disconnect is greatest. Your dark shock of hair brushes against my splayed legs every time he thrusts, but you refuse to look me in the eye. It is a test of my trust, I think, and perhaps my faith too, but it is also your way of losing yourself in this. You are tapping into a rich seam of pure pleasure, undiluted by caution or guilt, and your focus does not – cannot – waver. Instead you just stare blankly past me, or bow your head in silent submission to the physical punch of his dick inside you.

Half in shadow, he looms above both of us, his large frame made monstrous by my supine position. I look for uncertainty or triumph in his gaze, but can find only a curiously metronomic calm, as if he is maintaining control of his body through the suppression of any overt emotion. I am fascinated by his inscrutability, this other man of yours, and by the casual brutality with which he splits you open. There is no give to his body, no softness, and I flinch as your arms start to buckle and sag; he is a wrecking ball, pounding away at your fragile, crumbling facade, leaving it in pieces on the floor in front of us.

And it shocks me, how much I want him now. This stranger; this blank, brooding canvas you have brought into our bed. I want to step naked into the eye of the storm and let it batter me too, till I’m wrung out like a wet rag. Till I’m giddy and gasping and broken, all at once. I will kneel between his legs in genuflection, waiting for him to bless me with his big dick, coated in the sharp tang of your freshly-fucked cunt.

He sees it in me, I think, as we stare at each other over your upturned body, and I know then that you have already told him. It is why his violence seems so controlled; even as he unspools you from your reel, he is steadily taking the measure of me, turning each piece of visual data over in his head as he collects it. Reflexive shyness tugs my chin down and away, but it is flimsy and easily brushed aside. I want him to see it in me, this unchecked hunger. It will make me bold when the time comes.

You shudder against the bed, your orgasm forced out as a deep, gouging moan, and it is as if I can feel the vibrations in my stomach and thighs. Your hand gropes blindly for mine, but I don’t take it – not yet. Before you pull the three of us into the centre of your patch of light, I will stay out here for just a few seconds longer, bathing in its soft glow. Letting it warm my face as I move closer. Waiting for it to blind me.

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4 Responses to Eclipse

  1. “You are tapping into a rich seam of pure pleasure.” I needed that phrase earlier. Brilliant story.

  2. ellacydawson says:

    “It is why his violence seems so controlled; even as he unspools you from your reel, he is steadily taking the measure of me.”

    Fuck, dude, this is so good.

  3. Cara Thereon says:

    I love the language/wording you used in this. Exquisite

  4. Pingback: The Very Best Of 2015 | Charlie In The Pool

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